Connection
by General Button
Summary: Mycroft feels that he and Gregory are together, but not completely connected. Dissociation is more common than one thinks.


So I'm in a bit of a slump on my other fic, crawling on the floors trying to think of what to write, and I started reading this amazing book which inspired me to write this. I love this writing style. Most people don't like present tense, but I think there's a certain intensity to it that you don't get with anything else. So please enjoy.

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Mycroft is not - and never was - particularly privy to the language of love. His ways are stern and often times provocative, in the right situation.

That does not, however, reflect the innermost wishes of his heart.

The heart itself is a fickle thing. An organ that pumps the blood, beats and pulses, reflecting the human's current condition. Hearts can become physically weak. They can break, bleed out until nothing is left. Without a heart, one cannot live.

Mycroft Holmes always previously believed he could live without the "heart". Emotions cause drama and insurrection against one's own ethics and morals, at the most delicate of times. Mycroft scoffed at the idea of 'love.'

The first time that Gregory Lestrade strides into the room, he brings with him a warm, gregarious energy that has Mycroft's gaze automatically turning his way. His head is adorned with lush gray hair, thick and dark near the back of his head, gravitating from silver to the thinnest shade of pure white.

After weeks of observation and subtle, "chance" conversation, Mycroft belatedly realizes he is enamored with this fine fellow and his cool, unsophisticated yet completely likable personality.

It took months, then years, until Mycroft finally confesses. After dodging dates and kidnapping the man to talk about Sherlock, he finally makes himself ask in only a slightly pretentious way, if he would like dinner.

Greg mentions a craving for Mexican.

Contrary to what one might believe, they don't jump right in.

They casually date for a time, one suspecting it may not even be dates, the other too happy that he's there - and still fumbling with these new emotions - to even thinking of sharing contact or delving deeper into their personal lives.

After a month of "dating," Lestrade kisses Mycroft. It's chaste and quick, followed by burning cheeks. After Mycroft moves from the initial surprise and shock, he can still only touch his cheek with moderately widened eyes.

"That was pleasant." He sounds awed even to himself. They part, hearts beating and thrumming to the beat of their new lives.

The heart is a fickle thing.

The first time they make love isn't earth shattering or mind-blowing as one might believe. If anything, it is subdued and soft, full of eager-yet-barred touches that leave a lingering, intense heat, and deep kisses that draw groans from them both. Mycroft's very bindings threaten to unwind themselves, but he can feel something missing.

It's been two months. They've had much sex since then, taking time to explore each other's bodies, but Mycroft aches for something he never once admitted he would find himself wanting.

A connection. He wants a relationship with Gregory. Not relationships, as one has with friends or a lover, but a relationship. He both fears and wishes to push away the confines of his own closed off personality and bring to the surface a deeper, more sensitive part of himself.

Mycroft has relationships with everyone around him. Sherlock, his brother, to whom he plays a game of cat-and-mouse, seeing who can catch the other off guard. He has Anthea, a loyal confident whom he enjoys over many people. Even his fellow politician's see the man as pensive and collected, calm and omniscient, but few know him as the man behind the scenes, the one who can laugh and chortle, chuckle and even giggle (as Gregory often causes him to do), one who is capable of showing sentiment, though it is - at times - awkward.

That may be the problem. Although Gregory is a sensuous man, and they share moments, kisses, and soft spoken words, it's always a bit superficial. They talk of days and work and plans, smiling and laughing at appropriate points, but when it becomes deeper and more emotional, personal, they either joke or make a sarcastic remark to dissuade the idea of a serious talk.

Mycroft wishes to change it.

The next evening, when the door to their flat opens and Gregory walks in, Mycroft is by him almost instantly, hands over his shoulder, gently removing his coat. "Welcome home," he greets with a peck of the lips.

The affection is unusual, but welcome, as Gregory's eyes light up in delight and love. "Hey," he gives him his own kiss and Mycroft smiles into it. He wants to let go, to stop himself from this disassociation the two of them have managed to do time and time again. He wants to connect with Greg on all levels.

He begins with touches.

Casually Mycroft brushes hands over his shoulders, cheeks, and neck, never alluding to sexual desires but simply content to touch, to be there. Gregory is curious and inquisitive, but makes no move to stop him. Sitting on the couch, watching Doctor Who together he leans into the loose fist, rubbing Mycroft's knuckles.

"Had a bad then? You're awfully touchy." He finally confronts the touches, but doesn't make it seem as though he minds at all. For this Mycroft is glad.

He opens his mouth and then closes it, shaking his head. This unearthing of himself is hard to put into words. "No, there was nothing particularly frustrating. I just…wanted to touch you," he admits with a light flush to his cheeks, the barest hint of a smile rising as Greg grins.

"All right. Carry on if you want." And he reaches to Mycroft, lets his fingers stroke his cheek before lightly gripping his chin. An unasked question. Mycroft tilts his head and kisses the tip of Gregory's finger, nail caught lightly between his lips. Anticipation bubbles in his stomach, as well as a sudden feeling of vulnerability. He must push it down and open himself if he wishes to have a relationship with Gregory.

So, he leans in and lets the DI capture his lips, tugging them gently between his own as they kiss. It is very soft and languid, so unlike the usual advances the two of them make. It is unhurried, and with delight Mycroft notices that Gregory has concluded he is in a mood for a more sensual touch.

Mycroft pulls away as his mind begins to spin, lips swollen and tingling. He takes Gregory's hands into his own, runs his thumbs over his knuckles. For a while he just gazes at the rough, calloused fingers, caught between different emotions that tumble inside of him, welling up. He feels so open, so vulnerable, and it causes him to shake slightly. This is all so new.

"Are you all right? I mean - you've been a bit out of it," Greg probes, voice sonorous, tender. Even he seems affected by this moment. Mycroft forces himself to look, to face him. It would be so easy to keep his soul closed and pretend - pretend until the flimsy connection they have is once again lost.

So he faces Gregory, watches as uncertainty flickers over his features. His eyes drift away and he unconsciously closes himself off, feeling far too vulnerable to be so open, to have Mycroft gaze so deeply at him. After some time, when he finds it impossible to keep his gaze away, their eyes meet.

They hold each other's gaze, slowly opening up and becoming aware of the apparent openness that is between them. It sparks and sizzles, unspoken. Their hands are tightly clasped together.

"I have a request," Mycroft nearly whispers. Gregory is lightly flushed, embarrassed for some reason; uncomfortable.

"Anything." He sounds fairly uncertain. This is new. This isn't like their usual banter. Mycroft's gaze becomes curious.

"I want…to connect with you," he says carefully, bringing one of his hands to his lips. The contact nearly stings. Gregory blushes.

"I - what - connect? What do you mean?" he asks, but Mycroft believes he is aware, deep down.

"Our conversation is stimulating; not abnormal in any way. We speak to each other, confide in each other, complain, wonder and explore each other's bodies," as Mycroft says this, he is slowly climbing onto Gregory's lap, fingers dancing up his chest, arms wrapping around his neck, "But sometimes I can feel it - both of us holding back. I do not wish for either of us to feel as though we must disassociate ourselves. I wish to be the person you tell everything to. Your darkest fears," he lets his lips trail Greg's ear; he shudders. "And your greatest fantasies."

" I —" he is obviously still confused, disoriented by this sudden proclamation. Had they ever seemed unconnected? Had he not performed well in bed? In their life? Is he not suitable for Mycroft?

The aristocrat can see it flash over his eyes, anxiety creasing the set-in-stone wrinkles. Mycroft kisses his brow, smoothes the wrinkles away, and smiles. "Let us hold nothing back. Tonight, treat me as you wish, as you have always wanted. I don't want to play the game of fear anymore," he husks, then dives in for a kiss. It is hot, sensual and deep, much more heart thrumming, much more livening.

Mycroft's fingers tangle into the attractive hair, and he pushes their bodies together, clothes suddenly fickle - like everything else; inconsequential. Gregory's hands grip his elbows and soon he is leaning into their kiss, forcing his tongue in to make Mycroft open his mouth and groan.

He melts, and Myrcroft is forced against the back of the couch. It is much more rough, much more demanding, but suddenly so much sweeter. Gregory has wanted to show him how he feels, but instead held back, preferring safety and Mycroft's good graces.

A throaty moan accompanies the harsh thrust to his hips.

—-

They tumble into bed, arms spread wide and legs open with welcome. Mycroft wants everything Gregory can - and wants to - give him. He bares his neck and puts his heart out on his sleeve, letting Gregory's swift hand grab it up. They tussle and turn over on the bed, until they are both naked and panting.

Mycroft regards Gregory, eyes raking over his bare body as if for the first time. Gregory seems equally enamored, his eyes giving a slow slide from bottom to top.

Gently, with the softest touch he places his fingers against Mycroft's toes. Then a hand. The hand moves to his ankle, a slow slide of skin curling around skin. Mycroft's toes clench and his muscles tighten, shocked at the sensitivity.

Greg's eyes lock onto his and he lifts Mycroft's foot slowly, one hand sliding down the underside to cup his heel, the other climbing up his calf. Lips touch the skin on the top of his foot, and Mycroft shudders, waves of affection, love, and appreciation welling up deep inside him.

Gregory peppers kisses up his feet, let his lips drag over the smooth skin of his calf. Slowly he makes his way up one leg, hands running over the untouched areas, fingernails leaving hot pleasure in their wake. Mycroft arches, opens his mouth and breathes heavily, so overcome he cannot speak. This worship of his body, this display of love and a new curiosity for a man he should not - but somehow has - fallen in love with, makes his eyes well up.

Gregory, determined and so, so gentle, lifts his leg and licks the underside of his knee, planting a kiss two inches away, three, and then he's nuzzling the inside of Mycroft's thigh, breath ghosting over his sensitive organ nearby. He repeats the process - meticulously - with his other leg. By the end of it, Mycroft is a shaking mess, absolutely _wrecked_, body flushed pink and heart hammering.

Gregory, too, seems taken by the tender emotions that well up within them both. His rough handlings have now become tame, soothing, but no less powerful. Mycroft rises up to grasp at him, clinging as they roll their hips, undulating with every breath.

"Gregory," Mycroft gasps into his ear, jerking when his lobe is caught between powerful teeth. Sweat drips down his forehead, and he rocks against his lover, wondering how anything can be so suddenly intense and wild when they've barely begun.

Greg's hands, unbearably warm and intrusive, run over his shoulders, his arms, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Mycroft bites his lover's neck and feels his way around Gregory; hands roam and fingers push into the hardened, rough skin. His heart is beating so hard, so loudly, it's all he can hear over the sound of his own breath, coupled by Gregory's.

Their chests bump. Mycroft rolls up against him with a desperately heated groan, hips moving on their own accord. He can feel Gregory. He can _feel_ him. He knows. He is certain.

They echo, bodies screaming, pleading, _taketaketakeme take my heart and never release it from your grip. Love me show me your love I need to love you. _

Mycroft shudders when Gregory enters him. It is immediate, both painful and exquisite. They are together, irrevocably together. Nothing will compare to this feeling of completion, of love and wonder and emotions that choke and strangle Mycroft's words, let them die on his hips. He is only able to breath against his lover's neck as tears slip over his cheeks. He is shaking, trembling with emotions he is letting rise from within himself, things he would normally never experience.

He is vulnerable. He is open. Mycroft's chest is ripped to shreds, his heart bare and for the taking. His head rolls back; he offers his heart up to Gregory, if he wants it.

Sweating and panting, Gregory stares at him, pulls back, and thrusts deep. He kisses Mycroft, kisses him deeply, passionately, lovingly, tongue and lips and teeth caressing and rubbing the tender spots of Mycroft's lips and mouth. He is drowning, drowning in Gregory and everything that makes him both awful and wonderful. He is drowning, and only a sharp nail to his hip can dare to bring him back.

Gasping, a fish out of water, they move, a harsh push and pull - a harmony for the heavens, until Mycroft's mind clouds and his thoughts blow into nothing, scattered, remnants of a strange past. He spirals, breath mixing with his lover's, making love and bonding and beauty and it's all so much, it's all_too much_—

Then he is floating, his own voice rough and high as he clenches tight against Gregory, muscles clamping down to claim him, keep him there. _Never leave, stay,_ he screams.

Then the rough, tear-jerked voice of his lover echoes and their foreheads are pressed together, breaths shares and eyes glazed, but alive and gazing at each other with wonder. _That was mind-shattering. That was stupendous_, he wants to say, but Gregory kisses his lips and lays them down, knowing he can't speak, that tomorrow is a better time, when they aren't so choked and wrought and_broken_, but so alive. The fear drizzles away, touches are languid and understanding. They can begin.

Their fingers meet and curl together; they are connected.

Tomorrow is a new day.

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I made this for you (so review).


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